


Swanwing

by Gehayi



Category: De vilde Svaner | The Wild Swans - Hans Christian Andersen, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Cold Weather, Disabled Character, Female Character of Color, Magic, Magic-Users, Male Character of Color, Minor Original Character(s), Mountains, Multi, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Noodle Incidents, Quests, Spells & Enchantments, Wings, non-binary original character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 15:37:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10924839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gehayi/pseuds/Gehayi
Summary: A prince with a wing for an arm, the target of mocking words and cruel attacks, goes on a quest to find healing and happiness.





	Swanwing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [damozel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damozel/gifts).



> **Prompt:** _And what about the poor youngest brother? How did he cope with a wing for an arm?_

Afterwards, the youngest prince wanted nothing more than to flee—or to wake from what felt like an evil dream. He, like his brothers, had hungered and thirsted to be human and whole for nine years, and thanks to a jealous archbishop who had suspected their sister of witchcraft and a brother-in-law who was fool enough to believe the prelate, he was now neither. For he had no doubt that if Elisa had been permitted to finish his shirt of knitted nettle-flax at leisure instead of trying frantically to complete it before being burned at the stake, all would have been well.

But he could not flee. Too many in Elisa's kingdom still believed that she was a witch, and none save those in the capital had seen him and his brothers changing back. And only those nearest to the square where she would have been burnt, at that.

Besides, Elisa had died of stress and sorrow mere moments after throwing the shirts over her brothers' heads. She had only lived long enough to proclaim that now she could speak and that she was innocent. Oh, her life had been restored. The rosewood woodpile about the stake had taken root and sprouted into a tall hedge, and crimson roses had blossomed all over it. The king had seen one solitary white rose that shone like a star blooming atop the hedge, and he had broken it off and placed it upon Elisa's breast. The church bells had sounded without any bell ringers ringing the changes, and the sky had filled with flocks of songbirds.

And Elisa had arisen from the dead as if she were waking from sleep.

There had been enough good omens associated with that resurrection, the youngest prince knew. They fairly shouted that Elisa was blessed by Heaven. But it would only take one person whispering that the starry rose and the bells and the songbirds and even Elisa's death were all witches' tricks, and that they wouldn't be fooled, no, no, not they! And there were others who would say that a sixteen-year-old girl who had died and come back was not properly human and had no business reigning over other humans.

Moreover, the youngest prince had little faith in his brother-in-law. A king who would agree to kill a wife whom he supposedly loved out of fear and distrust—well, if Elisa wanted to stay with him, that was her business. But what had happened once could happen again. The more frightened the king's subjects and courtiers were, the more likely the king would toss Elisa to them as a thief tosses a meaty bone to a slavering dog. _Eat this, animal! Bite the bone, crack it, tear it to pieces! Just don't do the same to me!_

This wasn't a happy ending. It wasn't even an ending. The old pattern was there, waiting to begin all over again. And that wasn't tolerable.

And so, before all the celebrations were half-done, eleven princes rode from the palace, determined that every last person in the kingdom should know that Elisa was innocent and that there was no need to be afraid.

The youngest prince knew—could not help but know—that he was the most important in this venture. His ten older brothers were honest and loyal men, but there was no sign that the curse had ever touched them. A shrewd merchant or a canny peasant might listen to their tale and nod respectfully…and then laugh at them over an ale or two, or revile them for their deceitfulness and their protection of a demonic witch who could not die.

But the curse had not completely left him. The most dubious skeptic might examine his wing and see that it was neither a malformed human arm nor a disguise. Oh, there were a thousand differences, but they all came down to his having a huge swan's wing grafted onto a human body. He was proof that this was neither trick nor feast-fire tale…or as close to proof as he and his brothers possessed. 

They rode and walked and climbed to every apartment and shop and beneath every bridge in every city, and every house and hut and hovel in every village. They spoke to everyone, from the child just old enough to understand to the kindly grandmother still blessed with a reasoning mind and a loving heart. And everywhere, everywhere, they told the truth, trying to convince the doubtful and dubious.

It was not an easy task for any of them, for their stepmother had had ten years to spread lies about them…just in case they ever returned to any kingdom within a swan's flight of their southern homeland. And so, more often than not, they had to confront long-ingrained beliefs that they were corrupt men who had pledged themselves to the service of evil, and that Heaven itself had transformed them as a punishment. More often than not, they had to remain in the neighborhood for some time, letting the people see from their actions what manner of people they were.

The youngest prince had the worst of this, for people gaped at him in horror and nausea and disgust. Some said that he must have made the foulest compact with the Devil, and so the Devil had marked him more openly than any of his brothers. Others said that he was no more than a mindless animal that should be put down. Still others—and their number was legion—did not care whether he was evil or animalistic, so long as they got to torment him with sharp words, sharper sticks, and the sharpest knives. It wasn't as if shouts of protest, heartbroken tears or blows struck in self-defense—whether his own or his brothers'—mattered. He wasn't _human_ , after all. Indeed, many grew indignant that anyone would try to cheat them of their cruel entertainment.

For seven years, this went on. And every day, the youngest prince broke a bit more.

At last, however, the task came to an end. A majority of the kingdom's subjects now believed that Elisa was innocent, not only because of the princes' words but because she had proven their tale true, becoming the kindest, most industrious and most devout of queens. And the archbishop was unlikely to cause any more harm, for his superiors had bidden him to retreat to a monastery as penance for his envy and perjury, and not to leave until a sign came from Heaven as unmistakable as those surrounding Elisa's resurrection.

Free at last to do as they wished, the other princes made plans. The eldest, Magnus, decided that it was time to reclaim his rightful kingdom from their faithless father and their witch stepmother. Thus he would need military training, for he doubted if either would let him re-enter the kingdom, let alone claim the throne, without a fight—and swans spend but little time wielding sword and lance and spear. Emil, the second-born, who could befriend bears and eagles and the very earth itself, swore that he would create an invisible and invincible net of spies, for it is impossible to win a war without knowing what the enemy has planned. The third-born, Oskar, who had a knack for making everything about him richer, stronger and more prosperous, said that he would buy land and produce so much gold and so many crops that not a single soldier or a solitary subject ever want for food, clothing, shelter or coin. Oskar's twin, Oliver, vowed that he would become the greatest and most honorable of wizards, as he had no doubt that their stepmother would try to use her enchantments against them, their armies, or Elisa. 

"I cannot stop her from doing this," he added grimly, "but I want to ensure that she'll fail."

The next three had no time for battle, as they had fallen head over heels in love with young nobles they had met in the course of their journey.

Villem loved the son of a prince and princess. The princeling was lean and lithe, with red lips and jet-black skin and hair so pale it made the very snow seem like night by comparison. Many said that he resembled his mother in all things. Certainly he was handsome beyond the telling of it, with a blithe, loving heart to match, and if he knew one dwarf that he counted as family, he knew a thousand. 

Lucas loved the daughter of a _hertug_ —what the English would call a duke. She had hair as red as a fox's brush and eyes the bright blue of October skies, along with a witty, jesting tongue. Her jokes and cleverness charmed Lucas, who felt that the world was brighter for her being in it.

Malthe loved an artist—the child of a _greve_ , or count—who possessed such remarkable skill that they might stand before an emperor as an equal. They were short and plump, with hair the color of oak leaves in fall, the black, observant eyes of a raven, and small, deft fingers that were forever gripping a paintbrush or a chisel. Whatever they created was wondrous, and if the work's subject existed in the real world, it seemed to increase in beauty and grace there as well. 

Laurits felt that he could be of more use to the world as a physician than a prince, and managed to convince a wise old doctor to teach him so that he would be prepared to study formally at a university. And he needed those lessons, for it was not as if most of the princes had had much schooling.

Theodor declared that he was not ready to settle down and that he wanted to explore the world at his own pace when he bore no message and was not compelled by circumstance to be polite to the cruel and selfish.

Johan longed to soar through the air once more, and apprenticed himself to a man who was seeking ways to build a flying ship.

But the youngest (whose name was Sven, but whom Elisa's subjects called "Svanefløj," or "Swanwing") found the thought of dwelling with other people unendurable, for ten thousand jeers and jabs had lacerated him, leaving his soul sick and his heart sore. He could not even tolerate dwelling with his brothers or sister, for he did not want Elisa to gaze at him and feel that she had failed, or for his brothers to be guilt-stricken at the reminder that he was still afflicted by the curse that they had escaped. Nor was he willing to dwell anywhere that he might be a figure of fun...or of pity. 

And so, after leaving letters bidding a loving farewell to his siblings, he fled to the deepest, darkest forests where no one would see him. There he built a rude cabin, where he hunted, grew medicinal herbs and wild vegetables, and told himself hourly that he had everything he wanted.

Then, one bleak autumn day a year later, a crow landed on his window sill and croaked, "Prince Swanwing, Prince Swanwing, are you truly happy?"

It had been a bad day. All of Sven's traps had been sprung by a clever wolf or a vindictive bear; he was running low on medicinal herbs and it was far too late in the year to grow more of what he would need; the roof was leaking; and the wood in the hearth simply would not catch fire. Perhaps that, more than anything, was what drove him to say honestly, "No, I'm not!"

"Well, then," said the crow, "You need to go south until you find the largest, most gnarled old oak you have ever seen. There is a knothole in front; knock on it and speak to whoever answers."

"And then do what they say?"

The crow looked down its beak at Sven. "That's up to you," it said haughtily. "I would, at least, _listen_." So saying, it lifted its wings as if preparing to fly away.

"Wait!" cried Sven. "Who sent you?"

The crow lowered its wings and then fluffed out its feathers in irritation. "Maybe your brother Emil spoke to the King of the Birds, who sent me. Maybe your brother Oskar created me with magic, or Malthe's artist shaped me with a painting. Maybe your sister stormed Heaven with her prayers, and I'm the answer to that prayer. Who sent me doesn't matter. The message does. Oh, and I'd go before it gets much colder, if I were you." And with that, it flew away.

This was the least welcome news that Sven could have heard, for despite the miseries of living in a cold and leaky cabin and lacking enough medicine for the winter, the prospect of going among humans again was a horror to him. And it would be a burden to leave this house, which he had designed so that he could do everything easily with one hand. He had learned, over the past eight years, how to use his wing to balance things like plates and his mouth and right hand to tie bootlaces and the like, but it was no pleasure, even in private. Having to go out in public again...he flinched at the thought. 

He brooded for three days, trying to think of a good reason to ignore the talking crow and stay where he was, instead of setting off on a strange journey just when it was coming on winter.

Then, sighing, he packed some food, water, snares and medicine, donned his warmest suit and his thickest woolen cloak, shoved his feet into his driest, best-soled boots, slid a hunting knife into his belt, and headed south.

***

The journey south took a long time. First, the weather refused to cooperate and began raining almost immediately. It rained almost all the time, in fact. If it was not raining, then it was hailing, and if it was not hailing, then the road was shrouded in impenetrable fog—which left Sven wondering if he was still on the road at all. And because it was continually overcast, he could not use the stars to calculate where he was and what direction he needed to go.

The other problem was finding the right tree. He passed many, many ancient and gnarled old oaks…but he was never certain whether or not the oak he had just passed was a normal-sized tree or, perchance, a fraction larger than the largest tree he had ever seen. The fog presented its very own special horror: he could walk right past the oak he was seeking without knowing it was there.

He crept south, feeling more and more lost with every step.

At last his legs could carry him no longer. He stumbled from the path, his knees gave out, and he fell, cracking his head as he went down. His vision went black and he collapsed.

When he awoke (was it minutes later or hours?), an old woman—at least, she sounded like an old woman—was rapping him on the head with her knuckles. 

"You ran straight into my tree, you foolish boy!" she shouted. "Why didn't you look where you were going?"

Sven peered at her with blurred eyes. At first she looked and sounded like an angry grandmother, then a screech owl, and then a grandmother again. "Who are you?" he wheezed.

"I have a great many names," she said with dignity. "Owl Woman will do for now. And I've been waiting for you for quite some time. What took you so long?"

Sven explained about the clouds, the fog and the oak trees that had all looked alike.

"Hmmph," said the Owl Woman, crossing her arms over her chest. "Perhaps you should wear my glasses for the rest of the journey. My tree can always grow a new pair for me." And she plucked them from her nose and pushed them into Sven's hand. "Put them on. Now. You need to take a good look at my oak."

Sven did as he was bid and then gasped, for the oak was as wide as five hundred palaces and taller than a thousand cathedrals. It looked as if it had been growing since the beginning of the world. Compared to this tree, he was an ant, a flea.

"How did I miss that?" he asked weakly. "Even in the fog—"

The Owl Woman shook her head and muttered something about spells that left their victims 'twixt and 'tween distorting vision. 

"Could you…break it? Properly?"

The Owl Woman shook her head. "Not I. The spell's broken, though broken badly. I can give you vision and advice about what you'll find on the road, but I can't mend a wound that isn't there."

Sven was at the brink of shouting in rage and horror—how could she say that there was nothing wrong with his arm?—but he was a prince and his manners were better than that. So he choked down his fury and frustration and told the truth politely. "I don't understand, Owl Woman. A wing is there, not an arm."

"Aye, and that's what your body thinks you're supposed to have," said the Owl Woman. "If I tried to use my magic to transform your arm back to normal, it wouldn't work. Your body would keep using the magic that's left in you from your stepmother's spell to turn your arm back into a wing. Could be that it would turn something else into a swan's body part by accident. You could end up with a swan's feet, or body, or head. And that wing…well, it wouldn't be a wing when the magic from two spells had transformed it, but it wouldn't be an arm, either. It might be a beetle's leg, grown man-sized. Or beetle-sized. Or a horse's leg. Or some hideous blend of swan and horse and beetle that did not and could not work."

Sven stared at her in frozen disbelief, feeling as if the blood in his heart had turned to clotted ice.

She gazed at him sorrowfully. "I'd help you if I could, lad. But I'm only a forest fairy, even if I am the oldest one in the world. I can't undo what's been done; all I can do is tell you to head east…and not to avoid the villages you'll see, for you'll need to stop at each one for supplies. You'll be heading into the very heart of winter, and only your own cunning and the experience of the Eastern Folk can save you."

Sven bowed his head. "All right," he said quietly. "Thank you, Owl Woman. But…if I may ask…where am I going in the east? And how will I know when I've reached the right place?"

The Owl Woman explained that his destinations were three villages: one underground, one that floated on water, and one that had merged with a mountain. The first he would find by following nine bright stars in the form of a lyre, which would appear on the winter solstice. A constellation of seven stars in the form of a fountain would appear on the vernal equinox, and would lead him to the village that floated. The third constellation, twelve stars in the form of a gryphon, would appear on Midsummer's Day and would show him the path to the mountain village. And there, in the third village, he would find his second guide.

"She is a sorceress," the Owl Woman said. "Oh, don't look like that! She's a good woman. And she's human like your stepmother, so her magic may be able to do what mine cannot. I do not promise it," she added, "but it is possible."

She waved a hand, and in an instant, his pack was filled to the brim with all the supplies he would need to reach the first village. Then she pointed out the path he would need to take to go east—a thin, silvery lane with the faint glow of starlight. After that she vanished, and Sven saw her no more.

***

Sven's journey east was filled with adventures, enough to fill a dozen books. He diced with two young giants and won a tower shield that prevented magic from being used against the one bearing it; he saved a tailor's apprentice--who had failed to pay a tax on bones--from everlasting imprisonment; he found an egg that contained the soul of an evil wizard; he stumbled into a strange little town whose inhabitants were the most logical fools he had ever met. Of other matters, such as the affair of the thimble, the key of iron, and the angel's feather, it is perhaps best not to say too much.

But with every step Sven took, more snow filled the world, until he forgot what it was to be warm.

At last, however, he reached the first village. Zell was a town of gnomes, kobolds and dwarves, and they all lived underground, not far from the opal mines where most of them worked. They welcomed Sven into their midst, for it was said in Zell that a stranger arriving on the winter solstice brought luck with them, and more so if they had a tale to tell. Sven told a dozen or so tales, for the miners were all very firm that you had to send the old year out in style or you would have ill luck in the new. So he spent ten days in Zell, and happy days they were, too, for despite some curious stares and a few questions about his wing, no one punched him or taunted him or treated him with contemptuous disgust. 

And to Sven, this was like air to a drowning man. When he left on the first day of the new year, his step and his heart were lighter than either had been since before his enchantment.

But oh, if it was cold before, it was dreadful now! The snow never ceased, and the air was like a knife that cut Sven's lungs with every breath. 

On the vernal equinox, however, he reached the second village, which was called Kreyr. It was a town of rusalki—not the undead spirits of wronged and murdered young women, but their elder sisters, the ancient spirits that come from the water each spring to water the crops and the land. 

It is usually perilous for a young man to be anywhere near rusalki of any sort, but these saw Sven as cursed and suffering, much like their murdered siblings, and not at all the sort who had ever wronged either the land or a woman. And so they welcomed him to their week-long spring festival, and feasted him with new butter, milk, fresh cream, sour cream and, best of all, the hot, thin pancakes called _blinis_ all stuffed with cheese. The food was delectable, but even better to Sven's mind was the fact that they treated him with courtesy and kindness…and not one scrap of pity.

While the underground people of Zell had told Sven how to survive the storms of the plains, the rusalki of Kreyr warned him about the mountains—the nightmarish storms and the spirits who dwelt there. He also received a strange piece of advice from the eldest rusalka. 

"Leave your knife and your traps behind," she told him as she prepared the dough for that evening's _blinis_ , "for you will not be able to use them. Do not lift your hand against any living being on those mountains, be they bird or beast, insect or plant, human or monster; do not so much as swat a fly that will not cease plaguing you. Believe me, this is the only way that you will have a hope of reaching that third village."

Now Sven did not wish to do this, as he had labored long and hard over the traps and snares to craft some that were strong and yet could be opened with the touch of his only hand. Moreover, he was certain that if he did not possess a knife, he would instantly need it to survive. But he recalled what the Owl Woman had said about heeding the advice of the people from the three towns and so, after wrestling with the idea for a time, he silently and reluctantly gave his traps, snares, and weapon into the care of the eldest rusalka.

After he left the village of Kreyr (having been rowed to the opposite side of the lake by a businesslike rusalka), he briefly entertained the thought that the journey to the third village would surely be easier than the first two had been. It was spring now; in a short time, it would be Easter. Surely, surely the snows would stop.

But the storms did not stop. In fact, Sven soon learned to hate the words "summer snows." And as he made his way into the hills and mountains, the weather grew worse and worse and worse. And while the skies generally cleared in the evening, it was all but impossible to find the constellation of the gryphon, which he had been told would guide him to the third village. The stars did not look as they had back home.

As for the cold, it bit him over and over as if it were a cruel, mean-spirited snake intent on poisoning him. His very bones felt as if they had been filled with broken glass that was forever stabbing him from the inside out. His feathers were coated in ice, and sometimes snapped off. A heaviness filled his chest and, as he inched higher and higher into the mountains, there seemed to be less and less air to breathe.

And of course, climbing a mountain when he only had one hand was a horror that it was better not to think of.

 _I will never see my brothers and sister again,_ he thought bleakly, not once but hundreds of times. _I could never cross those mountains or that endless snow-covered plain again. Not now. Not knowing how hard it is to do either and survive._

Each time he thought this, it was more and more difficult not to weep. Yet he dared not, as he was certain that if he did, the wind would freeze his damp eyelids and eyelashes to his chilled cheeks, and then he would be blind.

_I will cry when I reach somewhere warm and safe. But not before then._

Finally, finally, in the last hour of the summer solstice, he found the gates of the third village, Sechen. Unlike the first two villages, this one had locked gates and two guards. Both had the limbs and bodies of strong human men, but both had golden wings sprouting from their shoulders and both had the heads of hawks. 

"Greetings, brother," said the guard on the left. "You have done well to get this far; not in a thousand years have I seen a mortal reach these gates. What do you wish?"

"T-to come in," wheezed Sven.

A hawk's face is not really built for frowning, but Sven had the impression that the guard on the right was trying to do just that. "Alas, that is not permitted unless you have business here. And since you are a stranger here, that would not seem possible."

For a moment, Sven's head whirled. He had not dreamt of being turned away after such a desperate struggle. He opened his mouth to protest…and recalled what the Owl Woman had told him.

"There's a sorceress waiting for me within your village," he gasped. "A human sorceress. The Owl Woman said so. Please. Let me come in."

The guard on the left bent down, thrust his head toward Sven's face and then opened his beak as if to bite. After a moment he nodded and straightened up. "You have hunted in the past, but you have harmed nothing living since this quest has begun."

The guard on the right repeated his fellow's action and then surveyed Sven with a golden-eyed stare. "And you bear no weapons or traps. It is well that you obeyed this stricture; had you not, the gates would have been closed to you forever. But tell me, what do you hope to find in our village?"

"Healing," Sven stammered.

The two guards exchanged a long look.

"You may find it," said the first guard slowly, "and then again, you may not. But the goal is a worthy one. You may pass." And with that, he unlocked the left gate, pushed It open, and stood aside.

"I do not believe that you know what you are seeking," said the second guard, "but you have not come to harm anyone who dwells within, and your destiny lies past these gates. You may pass." And he unlocked the right gate, pushed it open, and stood aside.

Sven tottered through the gates, moving like a frail old man. He scarcely noticed the middle-aged Mongol woman sweeping toward him until she touched his arm.

"So you have come at last, Sven Svanefløj," she said in a deep voice. "It is good to finally meet you. You may call me Jaliqai Biljigur, Jaliqai the Lark. I am the Owl Woman's friend. Now. Come with me. You have worn yourself out to get here, and you need warmth and rest."

***

Sven never remembered much of the next month, but the Lark was as good as her word. She stripped him of his ice-caked clothes, let him soak for a time in a hot bath, and then bundled him into dry garments and a warm bed. For a month she tended him as gently as if he were her own child.

When at last he could breathe and speak once more, he asked—without much hope—if she would transform his wing into an arm.

Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, my dear, I would be happy to do so! But I am only a human, and this city and the next you must go to were built by immortals. You must appeal to them. Well, to one immortal in particular. But I may not tell you her name or her role. She will have to do that...if you go on."

"If!" There was a chance of healing his arm if he traveled to just one more town. How could the Lark think that he would not do so?

"Are you certain that you want to? For there is a great deal of climbing—and the mountains you must cross to reach your destination make the ones you fought to cross look like foothills. I can give you a charm that will help you breathe easier...but the cliffs and crags hereabouts are not kind to those unfamiliar with them. And you have already suffered cruelly." She wrung her hands, paused for a moment as if waiting for him to say something, and then continued.

"You could remain here. There are few humans in Sechen—even I do not dwell here—but I visit often, and the Enerem are kind. You could make a life here. A happy one."

"How happy could I be, knowing that I was shrinking from the final part of my quest because of fear?" Then Sven sighed, running his fingers through his brown hair, and gazed at Jaliqui. "I don't doubt that the climb will be as bad as you say—if not worse. I don't even know that I will survive it. But..." He squinted up at the ceiling, groping for a way to put his feelings into words. "I can run from the weapons and words of mobs. I can't run from _myself_. I have to see this through."

"Well, then," said Jaliqui, looking and sounding as if she might burst with pride, "when you are strong enough, I will teach you how to climb. There is more to it than you think."

***

Once he had recovered enough to bear the cold that lay beyond the gates of Sechen, Sven began training with Jaliqui. He had to learn how to climb like a mountain goat, finding the smallest toeholds and fingerholds on sheer cliffs and making them bear his weight. He had to leap from ledge to ledge, like a tiger that was hunting. He had to find ways of using his wing to shift his balance and help him glide from peril to safety. 

He asked once if the charm that let him breathe the thin air could not also allow him to float on the mountain winds. But Jaliqui said that the charm was healing magic, not transportation magic, and that the latter did not work where he was going. "The founder of that land enchanted it long ago to protect his people," she said. "Those who do not climb in on their own do not reach it at all."

Time passed, and Sven learned to climb like a goat and a tiger, to use his wing rather than curse it, to move as fast as a wave, as quickly as the wind on that wave, as swiftly as thought itself. The day came when Jaliqui said that she had no more to teach him.

"You entered through the eastern gate," she told him. "You must leave through the southern one. The guards will try to dissuade you; do not let them. Once you are through the gate, speak no word of farewell and do not look back. Head south and south and south again, and then climb toward the setting sun until you see a great valley surrounded by sheer cliffs. You must make your way to the highest and most perilous of them, for only that one has what might be called a path. Walk down until you meet a manticore and a dragon; do not pass them or feed them, lest they take you for an invader or a thief, but bow to them in greeting and then climb as I have taught you, leaping from ledge to ledge and toehold to toehold until you reach the entrance of the valley. Head to the river directly in front of you and say whatever comes into your heart. What will happen after that, not even I can say."

And Sven did as Jaliqui the Lark had bidden him. He did not heed the Enerem guards at the southern gate, who presented him with most excellent reasons not to depart from their fair city, but—while thanking them for their gracious hospitality—insisted that his destiny lay elsewhere. When at last they reluctantly opened the gates, he bowed politely to each and then strode through, not looking back. When he met the manticore and the dragon, he treated these guards with the same silent courtesy and then climbed, nay, danced down an adjacent needle-like spire as fast as a wave, as quickly as the wind on that wave, as swiftly as thought itself, until at last he reached the bottom.

He found himself in a green valley strewn with pine woods and purple star-shaped wildflowers and bisected by a stream that reflected the color of the turquoise sky. In the distance he could see horses running, and behind them yurts and villages. Far, far away, he could see the shape of what had to be an immense city of translucent stone, all curves and twists and spiral lines. The sun was vibrantly warm, as was the breeze from the west that ruffled his hair.

He knelt by the stream and breathed a short but fervent prayer, blessing whatever Fate had brought him here.

_You are most welcome, Sven Swanwing._

Sven spun around and found himself facing a woman with the intricately patterned wings of a steppe eagle, who was clad most royally in an embroidered crimson gown. What she looked like he could not tell, for her hair and eyes and skin color kept changing from one moment to the next, as did her height, her weight and her age. Only her shape and color of her lips remained constant, and he suspected that this was only because she was speaking to him.

"Who are you?" he gasped.

 _Call me Mönkh-Erdene. I am Fate…or_ a _fate. How glad I am that you are here at last! Your siblings have been praying for your happiness for quite some time._

"I am quite sure," said Sven firmly, "that they have not been praying to you."

Mönkh-Erdene laughed. _Indeed they have not! But Fate serves Heaven as best she can, and when the Maker of All Things heard those prayers, I was asked to find a way to change your destiny to a joyous one. It has taken a long time, but at last you have brought yourself home. My home—Enkhtuyaa, the ray of peace—and, I hope, yours._

_But before your journey ends, you must eat this,_ she said, plucking what looked like a berry of fire from the air itself. _You have been fortunate thus far. The Erenem speak to the heart so that all can understand them; the Owl Woman knows Danish, the Lark has traveled all over the world nine times and can speak nine times nine foreign tongues, the gnomes and their ilk know all trade languages, and there has never been a rusalka who could not speak the language of any man, wherever he came from. But my people do not know your tongue, nor you theirs. The fruit of the Thukaner tree will let you understand each other._ And she placed it in his hand.

Obediently, Sven chewed and swallowed it, though it felt as if he was eating live coals.

 _Good,_ she said. _Now, you have had a long journey, and it is time for a proper welcome._ And with that, she enfolded him in her eagle's wings. An instant later, Sven was standing in a wild garden somewhere in that city of translucent crystal, and a beautiful girl was gazing at him. 

"Are you Sven Swanwing?" she said, her face alight with joy. "My mother has told me all about you. I'm Amira."

Sven did not have to ask who Amira's mother was, for the answer was perfectly clear. Where her right arm should have been, there was the brown-and-grey wing of a steppe eagle.

***

It did not take Sven long to learn that everyone in this kingdom had one arm and one wing. "It has always been so," Amira told him when he asked, "just as the Enerem to the northeast have always had the heads and wings of birds and the Blemmyes to our west have always had eyes and mouths set in their chests. People differ."

And because it had always been so, the people had adapted. Boots did not have laces. Furniture was arranged so that anyone could outstretch or lift a wing without knocking anything over. Horses were trained to accept wings flapping near their faces or brushing against their flanks. Wings artfully (and carefully) fanned fires in kitchens and smithies. People used their own down to fill quilts and pillows. Women used looms that were constructed to suit the user, with one side moving in response to a hand's touch and the other obeying the touch of a foot. Clothing was designed not only to accommodate wings but to display them in all their beauty. Bows and arrows were outlawed, for arrows were fletched with feathers and nothing could be crueler than to turn feathers into something deadly.

Sven felt clumsy and untrained beside them. Not that anyone had criticized him; they were much angrier that his people had not done their best to make things easier. But still he felt that he was the least of those dwelling in Enkhtuyaa, which in his homeland he had heard called "Prester John's country." And he could not help but feel that Amira deserved better.

Then came the eighteenth birthday of Amira, who was not only the daughter of Mönkh-Erdene, Fate and Servant of Heaven, but also the child of the current king (who, despite his title, was no more named Prester John than Sven was). Nine and all multiples of it were considered very fortunate in Enkhtuyaa, and Amira was much loved by the fiercely independent residents, and so a nine-day festival was held. People sang and played the horse-head fiddle and told tales; there were riding and wrestling competitions. And it rained meat and snowed mare's milk, as they say.

It ended, as such festivals do, with a dance—held out in the grasslands beneath the open sky—and probably the only person in attendance who was surprised that Amira asked Sven for the first dance was Sven himself.

Sven tried to demur, for he could not bear the thought of appearing clumsy and foolish not only in front of Amira but also before her friends, family and future subjects. But Amira would not hear of it.

"Trust me," she said, her black eyes sparkling. "I think that you will enjoy this. Just do everything I do."

Sven could not refuse her, though he dreaded the outcome. "Very well," he said.

The dancers lined up and stood beside each other. Amira, on Sven's right, wrapped her arm about his waist and then nodded significantly at him, as if to say that he should do the same. 

The flute-players, drummers, and fiddlers began to play, and the dancers stepped forward, Sven doing his best to follow along.

This was no stylized ball, for the dancers leaped and pranced, pawing the air with linked hands before entwining their arms about each other's waists once more. Every step, every gesture, every motion with the head celebrated horses…old and young, tame and wild, running free across the grasslands. 

Every face was bright with independence and pride. _We are Enkhtuyaase,_ their expressions said. _We are the natives of what some call Prester John's country, the land that tricks invaders. We are the people of the horse, and we run free. But not alone._

Sven saw this and understood. And his heart leaped with joy.

"Now!" whispered Amira in his ear. "Step forward and flap your wing!"

Sven did, scarcely realizing that Amira's wing was beating in time to his. He only grasped this a few moments later when he saw that they were both rising from the ground. No, not only them. All of the dancers. A few had even passed Amira and himself and were whirling about the sky, the very picture of bliss.

It looked _wonderful_.

"Let's go higher!" he shouted, and a moment later, they were high above the rolling fields of grass, spinning and soaring among the clouds. 

They danced like this from noon until midnight, sometimes trading off to other partners, but more often with each other. By the end, their wings were bedraggled and their leg muscles sore…but they never wanted to stop.

They wed a year later, to the smiling approval of Mönkh-Erdene and Prester John, not to mention that of court and commoners alike, who were proud to have so brave and loving a man as the heir's consort. Sven's brothers and sister were there to see him married, for bears and eagles and the earth itself told his brother Emil of Sven's arrival in Prester John's country, Oliver saw, in a crystal he was scrying, images of his brother and Amira kissing, and Elisa heard the news of the upcoming marriage from an angel.

By now Johan had crafted a flying ship ten times stronger and swifter than his former master's , so of course he asked his siblings, their beloveds, and their children to travel with him as he sailed east…at least as far as the Enerem's fierce mountains, which they would then have to climb. And not one hesitated for a moment before saying yes.

On the way, Sven's friends and guides joined them: the Owl Woman, the gnomes and kobolds and dwarfs, the rusalki (including the eldest), Jaliqui the Lark, and the hawk-headed guards of Sechen. Even the impudent crow who had visited Sven in the forest came along. Sven's heart nearly burst from happiness at the sight of them all in his new home, and it scarcely took a moment's breath for Amira's people (and now his as well) to love his family as much as he did. 

As for the wedding itself, it was a day on which the sun and moon danced for joy.

Little remains to be told, save for two things. First, Mönkh-Erdene gave free passage to Enkhtyuaa to Sven's siblings for as long as they lived. Never would they bring the taint of the outside world to the country, and never would anyone find the land because of them. This would also be true of any letters or gifts they sent each other, she said, for while Fate is not always merciful, she can choose to be. And on this occasion, she did so choose. 

The second thing is that Enkhtuyaa is not only a land of wonders where the one-winged dwell, but, as Jaliqui once told Sven, a land of immortals, untouched by disease or death. Sven lived there in peace and happiness with his beloved wife and his flock of children all the days of his life…

…and as neither he nor any of them have died, they are living still.


End file.
